


Who Will Look After You

by orien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kid!Lock, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orien/pseuds/orien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was always the one who would nurse a grazed knee. Mycroft was the grounding anchor, and he kept Sherlock's world together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Will Look After You

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where the idea for this came from but I feel like the relationship between the Holmes brothers would have been very sweet when they were younger and that Mycroft would have been quite responsible for looking after little Sherlock in a world where perhaps their father wasn't around and their mother was constantly busy.
> 
> Enjoy this bit of fluff.

Winter was beautiful, as much as he hated to admit it, because of all the generic conventions. Burning logs on the fire, the smell of spiced apple, woolly jumpers replacing the three piece suits when alone in the country house. Often he would take idle walks across their acres, listen to the crunch of ice beneath his shoes, relish the feel of the bitter air biting at his skin and gnawing the bone because the house was only there and you could set the fire ablaze instantly and warm up again. It was the transition of the orange and yellow leaves shriveling up and dying, crunching underfoot, and he contemplated all this as he turned his pocket watch over in numbing fingers on his way to collect the younger. 

There was an array of black curls poking out from behind the oak tree which was looking terribly neglected amidst this panoramic view of their land, stretching out for miles, completely dead but abstractly beautiful. Sherlock liked to come out here during the day; after Mycroft wrapped him head to foot in near enough every piece of clothing he owned. Often the little boy liked to gradually discard every effort his brother made to keep him from catching his death because he enjoyed the feel of the frost at his skin, and more than once he’d end up with a red nose and sniffling all the way home. 

Mycroft tucked his watch away, peering around the side of the tree. Sherlock had removed his coat, which was lying in a bundle along with his scarf, hat and gloves on the ground, and Mycroft rolled his eyes at the infant as he took a moment to watch him splaying his hands out on the grass, balling it up in his fists. To the side of him was his notepad, and when he turned to look at Mycroft, he smiled widely to expose his toothy grin, unkempt locks falling over his face. 

“I’ve been looking at how long it takes for ice to thaw,” the boy explained, gesturing around him theatrically. “See?” 

Mycroft tilted his head in regard of the child’s experiment, before shaking it slowly and moving to collect Sherlock’s items. “You’re going to make yourself ill,” he told him, his voice stern but heavily laced with affection. _Caring is not an advantage_ , no, it wasn’t – but protection of one another came as naturally as breathing in the Holmes family. Mother was usually out on business nowadays and five year old Sherlock was almost always left in the care of Mycroft, despite his not even being a man yet himself. Raising a child like Sherlock was a task in itself, but since winter arrived he realised the boy could be left to his own devices so long as he was checked up on at regular intervals. 

“Come now, put on your coat,” Mycroft instructed, crouching next to his brother and pulling him closer, guiding his arms into the jacket. 

Sherlock protested, scrunching up his red nose and furrowing his brow petulantly - the way he always did when he couldn’t get his own way - but Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him and the child soon gave as his body shook in preparation for a sneeze. And then he did, the sound high pitched and pathetic, and Mycroft sighed.

“I told you, did I not?” asked Mycroft, pulling the gloves over Sherlock’s long, thin fingers, “I said to keep on your garments or you’d get poorly.”

Inquisitive blue eyes glared at him, hands freeing from Mycroft’s grip to tug at his brother’s waistcoat. “But _you’re_ not wearing a coat,” he said. 

The elder considered this, reaching over for the notebook and tucking it away in his pocket before scooping the child up into his arms. “It doesn’t matter if _I_ get ill,” he stated, carrying the child away, “but I’m supposed to look after you and if you get ill then mother will be very mad.” 

Mycroft rubbed circles into Sherlock’s back with his hand, generating warmth; keeping the child safe was a constant worry, but children like Sherlock you simply couldn’t monitor 24/7. No, scrap that – there _were_ no children like Sherlock. He needed to be free, to explore and learn and feed his mind. The world was a constant source of enigma to his already staggeringly over-developed brain, and Mycroft knew one day he would make a brilliant scientist or bio-chemist. Or pirate, if you were to ask Sherlock. The boy looked up, his face crinkling a little as he thought. 

“But if you get ill, who will look after me?” he questioned, pink cheeks looking almost swollen against his porcelain white skin. 

The elder brother felt his mouth turn up in a defeated smile, tightening his grip. “Sherlock, I will _always_ be here to look after you. Who else is going to save you when you get thrown into the brig on the pirate ship?” The house was in view now, just across the field, and Mycroft could feel Sherlock’s soft curls brushing against his chin, slightly damp and peppered in frost. 

Sherlock leaned in to his brother closer, resting his head into his shoulder, locking his hands around his neck. “I thought you said piracy was not a suitable career option? You said I would be much better off in~” he paused to sneeze, rubbing at his pointy nose furiously, “~in _science_.” His infantile dislike curled around the word and he shook his feet either side of Mycroft in disdain. 

“You’re a very clever boy. You’d make a fantastic scientist. Now stop wriggling around and stay still or I shan’t let you read before bed.” 

The evening was drawing in faster and the sky was cast in grey as the clouds began to roll in, so Mycroft was glad to have gotten Sherlock inside before the rain hurtled down in unforgiving sheets. He took the child upstairs, changing him into pajamas and placing him in front of the fire in the drawing room, calling for Hartley to fetch them some tea. 

The drawing room was almost silent save for the crackling of the flame, illuminating Sherlock’s little frame against the wooden flooring and bathing the room in a warm glow. Mycroft occupied the chair behind him, sat with his legs crossed, watching, observing. Sherlock’s other worldly eyes reflected the fire but soon his lids began to droop, and he laid back on the rug, curling in on himself. Mycroft’s attention shifted to the door as Hartley appeared bearing a silver platter, adorned with tea and scones. 

“Here you are, sir,” he said, placing the tray on the table next to the chair. Mycroft thanked him as he bowed and left the room, the door creaking shut and the silence settled upon them once more. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft stood, leaning down where Sherlock lay, nudging his arm softly. “Come have some tea before we take you to bed.” The infant shrugged off the hand and shied away, bringing his legs up to his chest and burying his face in the rug.

“I don’t want tea,” came Sherlock’s muffled voice, bringing his hand up to pull his hair over his eyes. “Tea is for people like _you_. People who still want to eat even after dinner.” The insult was so typically Sherlock and Mycroft gave a histrionic eye roll, slipping his hands underneath the boy and pulling him into his chest. 

“No!” complained Sherlock, wriggling around in the grip and mustering all his juvenile might to push Mycroft’s hands away as he carried him to the chair. 

“Stop behaving like a child.”

“I am a child!”

“Yes, when it suits you.”

Falling down into the chair and positioning Sherlock on his lap, he huffed, running a hand through his brother’s curls. Dark, full and soft, and one day they would be trademarked along with his prominent features that had yet to lose the baby fat. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest sulkily, his icy eyes cold and almost buried underneath a cross brow. 

“Why must you be so difficult over such simple things?” Mycroft asked, leaning over to pour himself and Sherlock a cup of tea, dismissing Sherlock’s well practiced glare. He then poured Sherlock a cup, handing it out to him and raising an eyebrow as the brother waited with childish scorn for a solid thirty seconds before he took the cup. 

“And you’ll eat a scone. Mother says I must ensure you eat well.” This irritated Mycroft immensely, actually, as he failed to understand how mother could have any jurisdiction in the upbringing or well being of young Sherlock anymore, or even pretend she cared. Her absence was no longer an abnormality that settled over the house like a plague, it was normal, and sixteen year old Mycroft was the parent, end of story. Sherlock knew this, too, and his teeth clenched together as he absorbed this.

“Mother says?” he echoed, staring down into the tea as though it held something of importance. No more words were exchanged on the matter, because both Holmes’ understood it wasn’t a subject they discussed. The irritation subsided as quickly as it had surfaced and Sherlock reached out for a scone, much to Mycroft’s joy that there was little argument. 

The evening filtered by in a lazy haze of the rain hitting the windows, the glow cast over their tangled limbs and the taste of homemade scones at their tongues. Encompassed in sudden exhaustion and happily immersed in the warmth emitted by the fire and the security of his big brother’s arms, Sherlock rest his head against Mycroft’s chest, small hands gathering up a fistful of his waistcoat in his fingers and holding on as though the elder was his life source. Essentially, he was – Mycroft was the grounding anchor, the one to keep him from falling. A scraped knee or grazed hands were never too much trouble. Mycroft kept his world together.

Mycroft was drifting off himself when Sherlock’s small voice broke the serenity of the quiet, shattered the peaceful string of unspoken truths that were always kept at bay, hanging over head in the shadow cast from the hearth. “Who looks after you, Mycroft?”

The brother lifted his head from where it was leaned against his knuckles, shaken awake by the sheer innocence of the query. “I think we both know the answer to that question now, do we not?” he answered, addressing Sherlock with a heavy heart. 

Adjusting himself on Mycroft’s lap and settling once more, he smiled. The evening encapsulated them and there they slept till morning, silently reveling in unspoken love.


End file.
